


Kingslayer of the World

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth work in an exhibition hall hosting a new Titanic film tour. They hate that film. They hate it bad. But as they walk through the displays late one night, Jaime decides to use the absurdity of their surroundings to get Brienne to see him as something other than a colleague. </p><p>Maybe it works better than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingslayer of the World

**Author's Note:**

> If you really lurve the Titanic movie…well, this fic doesn’t. Fair warning. 
> 
> Also, I don't even know what this is. It's so fluffy I want to puke, and maybe hide in a corner.

 

Amazing banner by [Ro Nordman](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/)

 

* * *

 

“This is _not_ why I work here.”

“Do I look thrilled about it myself?”

“You signed off on it.”

“I had to!”

“What’s the point of being a voting administrator if you couldn’t shut this down?” Brienne Tarth peered at him with an accusatory glare.

“I was outvoted!” Jaime Lannister decided to match her expression. “This kind of fuckery unfortunately funds the things that aren’t fuckery. You know that, Brienne.”

“Stop being crass,” she muttered, straightening to her full height.

He was never affected by her stature, but he noticed that she always stiffened when uncomfortable. He tried to make that happen as frequently as possible. The red blushes that stained her skin were just slightly charming, and they were far more visible that day because of her uncharacteristic attire. She’d been forced into an actual dress by the code of the cocktail party they’d attended for the Hall’s investors, and while she had no curves to speak of and shoulders broader than his, she was definitely a woman. He was almost surprised that she looked nice, more than nice in fact. He forced his gaze to stray to the gaudy sights before him.

The Red Keep Exhibition Hall was renowned in all of Westeros for hosting interesting lectures, avant garde art displays, and even the occasional nerd-incursion for conventions. They both tolerated those, but Brienne was distinctly _not_ tolerating the current exhibition as he stood with her near the entrance. A tall vinyl banner advertised the wonders to be seen.

_“Titanic: Behind the Scenes of Westeros’ Most Popular Cinematic Experience.”_

The marketing team had worded it in the most pretentious way possible. Jaime scoffed. _Experience_ indeed.

“You know,” he interrupted her contemplation of the pedantic novelty sucking the air from their workplace. “It’s a really terrible film.”

“Unforgivably bad.” She nodded.

“The worst,” he agreed.

The entire staff had been forced to sit through all three hours of James Cameron’s saccharine dialogue, the actors’ stilted attempts at forming chemistry, and the absolutely horrifying slaughter of historical accuracy. It had been a bloodbath of good taste.

Yet millions of people loved it, and thousands had already pre-paid the exorbitant ticket price to attend the exhibition which would open in the morning. Jaime shook his head in a sour sort of awe. The hall was empty now, except for them. They stood below a smaller-scale replica of the film’s ship deck designed for people to wander around and pretend they were sinking into an icy sea. Like that was fun.

“Let’s get this over with,” Brienne commanded, bracing herself as she clutched an official-looking clipboard in one hand, using the other to yank the hem of her dress further down though it already skimmed her knees.

He turned towards her, standing closer than usual. “Can’t we just fill out the forms and go for a drink instead? It’s all been checked.” He flashed a quick, hopefully persuasive grin.

She glared harder. “You got us into this, Jaime Lannister. I won’t shirk my responsibilities just because this is a stupid, money-grubbing, offence to humanity.”

“I was trying to do you a favor!” He frowned up at the vinyl banner. “I can’t win.”

When the staff roles had come up, Jaime had pounced on the task of managing attendee experience, which involved tracking opinion surveys, taking feedback, and running through the displays as mock ticket holders to ensure everything flowed smoothly. He’d put Brienne down as his second without even asking, knowing how much she’d hate the alternatives of writing pandering copy or acting as liaison with the film company.

She cleared her throat. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“Hmmph. Besides, this way we don’t have pretend to like it. The guards won’t even be watching our sneering faces.” He stepped closer to the entrance and took a deep breath as if the sights might poison him.

“I suppose this was the least offensive task available.” She climbed onto the deck of the fake ship and turned to wait for him.

“Always so formal, aren’t you?” He joined her with a grin and started strolling along the deck, the faux-brass railing blocking them from the terrifying four-foot drop to the floor.

“We are at work.”

He heard her footsteps behind him. “Not for long. We’ll breeze through and go for that drink.”

“I’m not a bar sort of person.”

“Everyone’s a bar person.” He glanced back at her stiff face. “Just have to find the right bar.”

She didn’t object right away. He took that as a good sign after so many weeks of outright rejection.

Finally, she garbled out a reply. “Don’t you see enough of me here? We work long hours.”

“Certainly not,” he asserted with a chuckle. “You’re the only tolerable person in this gods-forsaken place.”

“If you hate it so much, move on.” She said this so matter-of-factly it irritated him.

“Maybe I will. This could be my last expo.” He arrived at the end of the deck and began descending a long, wide staircase that led to a mimic of the old ship’s vast ballroom.

Glass cases filled the space that had been redecorated with red and gold wallpaper, and velvet curtains. Props and costumes from the film were arranged in rows to please insipid gawkers. At the bottom of the stair, he turned around to engage her in a round of mockery, but she had remained at the top.

The lighting in the ballroom wasn’t quite dim, but it had a sort of candle-lit effect to make things look richer. She loomed large far above him, half in shadow and half in the light that made the yellow of her hair glow. She’d grown it out again, he noted, amused at her inability to commit. Whenever he complimented her, she’d chop it off, sometimes to a horrifying degree, and then she’d grow it all over again. He hadn’t complimented her in a long while.

He could tell when she stopped looking at him and turned to the clipboard to jot something down, the hasty motion of her pen giving away her familiar show of nerves. Was she afraid to descend the staircase in her heels? No…she’d walked fine on the ship’s somewhat slippery floor.

Did she really think he’d quit because of what he’d said? He wouldn’t let himself think that, because it would mean she was upset by the prospect. It would be too much to hope for. Still, he wanted her closer, because he couldn’t see the violent blue of her eyes.

“Come on, Brienne. No sense in putting it off.”

“I’m just noting something,” she mumbled, only audible because of the lack of other people in the space.

 _Liar_ , he thought. “What is it? I’ll back you up.”

She met his gaze again, but he couldn’t see her expression. “Just…the carpet on the stair should be secured more carefully along the edges. Liability.”

“Ah, yes of course. Liability.” He decided to be ridiculous in this ridiculous place, holding out his arm at an awkward angle. “Come, my lady, and we’ll take a turn about the room before we die a frozen death.”

At least he made her laugh, and she finally descended, not wobbling at all. She didn’t take his arm, passing him instead to stop in front of the first case. He shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. They wandered from case to case, costume to costume, making notes about potential tweaks to the displays or lighting angles.

Jaime paused in front of a particularly awful costume for the film’s lead actress. It was black and white striped like graph paper with an enormous hat and black feathers. Even a parasol. Absurd.

“Now see, Brienne, this is the kind of thing you should wear. Your height would really emphasize the power of this hat, and you could bash people over the head with the parasol.” He scanned the costume and then her body, implying that he was picturing it on her when he was really taking the rare opportunity to watch the flimsy material of her skirt outline the shape of her legs.

He might not have been the kindest of men, but he knew Brienne had encountered far worse in her life. He’d overheard plenty of barbs at her expense during their years at the hall, and had gotten in trouble more than once in the last year for defending her. So what if he used his fist? He clenched his fingers against his palms as he remembered the satisfaction of those encounters.

Maybe she wasn’t exactly pretty, and maybe she did tend to scowl more than smile, but when she let him see her humor, that smile lit up her sapphire eyes and made his chest contract in strange ways. He’d only recently realized that he actually liked her company as a woman and not just as a colleague. And maybe her legs _had_ become something of a distraction.

She managed to grimace and scoff simultaneously. “I’d rather be dead than wear that. I’d rather be naked on the street.”

“Let’s test that theory.” He peered at her lasciviously, though she’d think he was joking.

She repeated as she so often did, “Don’t be crass.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender, intent on getting her to understand that not all men scoffed at her, and that some men, one man, thought she was worth admiring. “I don’t happen to see nudity as crass. Particularly not yours.”

She rolled her eyes, but one of her epic blushes rushed over her skin. “Refuse would be thrown at me if I walked down the street naked.”

“Then I’d become your human shield, kill your offenders, and keep the view all to myself.” He grinned widely, waggling his brows.

“I don’t know what to do with you, Jaime.” She shook her head in what he thought was genuine confusion.

“There are many things, like getting a drink, but for now let’s leave this cloying room.” It was a suggestion meant to diffuse her embarrassment, and he saw her inhale in relief.

She led the way to the next space, a version of steerage where the poorer passengers in the film danced jigs on a wooden floor. During the day, costumed employees would guide ticket holders in the dance steps. A motion sensor turned the music on automatically, and Jaime moved to stand in the middle of the floor. Brienne was jotting more notes, and when she glanced up, he held out his arm for the second time.

She frowned until her lips twisted quite impressively.

“Oh, come on…you know you want to,” he taunted without breaking eye contact.

“I do not.”

“You do, but besides that, you really should. I mean, how are we supposed to accurately gauge the experience if we don’t participate?” He could sense her giving in a fraction, the slight shift of her shoulders betraying her conflict. “It’s for professional reasons. Jobs. Careers. Responsibility. Duty. Honor….”

That got her every time. He almost felt guilty for using her sense of duty to achieve his own agenda, but it was a fleeting thought. He summoned her again with one finger, and she finally set her precious clipboard against one wall and stepped close enough to place a hand on his shoulder. She left space for a horse to walk between them, or at least a small pony, and she sputtered when he gripped her waist to pull her closer.

“This isn’t a period-appropriate distance!” she protested as her breasts nearly brushed his chest.

“It is for steerage.” He grinned the grin he knew she particularly hated and took her free hand in his.

He didn’t break eye contact as he began moving in box formation to the music, which really required faster steps. She huffed and looked at his forehead, at eye level for her in her peculiar low heels. Usually, they were almost of a height. He’d expected her to be ungainly and awkward as she tried to follow the movements, but she was unexpectedly confident about it, absentminded even as she tried to focus on anything other than him.

“Brienne Tarth, you’re not a terrible dancer! Shocking.” He kept his tone light though he was growing distracted by the swaying of her body.

Still she wouldn’t look at him. “Yes, well. I know how.”

“Obviously, that’s the shocking part.”

She turned her eyes down, probably to the floor, but to him it seemed as if she stared at the buttons of his dress shirt. “It was for sport.”

“What?”

“Sport. I played a lot of sport in school, and the coaches sometimes made us take dance lessons to improve our footwork. Ballroom, ballet…” She glanced at him and seemed to lose some of her embarrassment once she saw the interest in his eyes. “Even one terrible session of tap. It was ridiculous.”

“Tap? Now that’s something I’d pay to see. Any chance you still remember how?” He decided to pull her a little closer in the hopes of wearing her down.

“No!” she barked, betraying herself immediately.

“You do, I knew it. Come on then, tap a little.” He abruptly dropped his hands from her body, and took a step back.

“Absolutely not.”

“Just for me?”

“Not even to rescue you from the burning fires of a thousand dragons.” She didn’t look furious, so that was something.

He looked up through his lashes and bit his lower lip, two things that had independently gotten him his way on more than one occasion, even with Brienne. Together, he figured they’d be a powerhouse. “Please?”

There was that delicious red creeping to the surface. She clenched her fists at her sides, but he knew he’d won. “Gods, Jaime, you’re terrible.”

He nodded without hesitation. She blew air out her nose like a bull, rolled her eyes, and proceeded with a very brief set of tap steps that that made the muscles of her legs beg for his attention. It lasted only seconds before she dipped in a manly bow and scowled.

“Excellent! I’m quite delighted, but no jazz hands?” He cocked his head in challenge.

She stuck her tongue out and waved her hands back and forth against the music’s beat, turning to march back to the wall. He could tell by the set of her neck that she was smiling as soon as her back was turned, and he might have stolen a long look as she bent to retrieve her clipboard. A long look and a brush of his tongue over his lip. He headed to the next space without waiting so he couldn’t let himself get carried away.

Unfortunately, he was sure their light mood would be killed by the insanity spread out before them. It was another replica of the ship, but just the upper foredeck. On one wall was a screen and a camera, but all four were painted in a mural of the ocean and sky as if the ship were at sea. It was meant to host attendee reenactments of the actors’ scene on deck where the lead boldly proclaimed he was “King of the World,” and thereafter held the actress around the waist as she stood in the wind. It had been the part of the film Brienne had scoffed at most, though he wasn’t sure why. He felt her cross into the space behind him and snarl.

“Good gods, I’d forgotten about this. Let’s skip it.” She brushed past him, but he caught her elbow.

“What happened to responsibility?” He silently dared her to look at him.

She spun towards him and pointed a finger at his chest. “You…are trouble.”

“My middle name.” He sauntered towards the triangular end of the deck.

“Tytos does not rhyme with trouble.” She argued as she followed him.

He was startled she remembered such a small detail about him, mentioned so long ago in passing. She was such a skittish creature that he only wanted to make her laugh, so he leaned over the fake railing to power the screen on the wall and hopped up to brace his feet between lengths of brass.

“I’m Kingslayer of the world!” He shouted loudly as he stretched his arms out.

His image was projected on the screen so Brienne could see his face, though she stood six feet behind him. He could just make her out on the screen, noting a new blush and a tiny little smile.

“You’ll never shake that nickname if you don’t bury it yourself,” she chided.

“Good thing I have it then, or that phrase wouldn’t work here.” He grinned over his shoulder at her.

It had been years ago, at the very start of his career. He was assistant curator at a gallery hosting a visiting tour of royal portraits, the kings and queen of Westeros before the monarchy fell. He’d walked the floor one day when he'd noticed that the portrait of Aerys Targaryen II hadn't been hanging quite right from its supposedly-sturdy wire.

He’d stepped closer, and there had been a child underneath, staring at the imposing king with his perpetual sneer. The wire had quavered. Jaime had leapt forward and pulled the young boy away as the portrait crashed down into the suit of armor standing underneath, the old king’s face impaled on a sword.

Thereafter, Jaime had been dubbed _Kingslayer_. The gallery’s insurance had been maxed out paying for the damage, and Jaime had been blamed because he’d saved a kid and not the portrait.

He was aware that Brienne bristled any time someone called him that, and she didn’t disappoint this time. “It’s still ridiculous. That boy could have gotten a concussion or worse. People are idiots.”

“The number of tickets sold for this proves it.” He hopped down from the railing and faced her. “Your turn.”

She peered at the task list he knew was on her clipboard. “Standing on the railing is not only absent from our duties, it’s not even allowed. You were meant to use those blocks. Moving on…”

“Ah, but you’re missing something crucial, list or no list.” He baited her, waiting until her curiosity got the better of her.

“I really don’t think I want to know.” Her eyes flickered to the wall camera.

He was a bit disappointed that she’d already figured it out, preventing him from trapping her, but he still had to try. “Brienne, we must have a photo. Test the equipment, the lighting. It’s our jobs.” He nodded matter-of-factly.

She rose to her full height. “Fine. Go ahead, then.”

“That won’t do at all! It’s supposed to be two people.”

“You have a double ego. That counts.” She had blanched though, just then as her eyes flickered to the screen for the second time.

That was it, he knew. She didn’t want to see herself projected there. He hated that she was still so crippled by self-consciousness when he had long admired her strength and skill, and he found himself fixated on far more than that now. Strange little things like the length of her collar bone, and the trail of freckles right below that looked like a constellation. And her brilliant blue eyes that had been the very first thing he'd noticed about her.

Enough was enough. He marched over to her and wound his arm with hers, taking her hand as well, and before she could do more than inhale in preparation for insult, he’d propelled her to the front of the so-called ship until she was forced to rest her hands on the railing. She wasn’t even looking at the screen.

He stood behind her, close enough to feel her body heat, but she was too tall in those damn heels. “Take off your shoes.”

“I will not!”

“Good gods, Brienne, have a bit of fun,” he almost growled before he remembered how sensitive she’d become if he didn’t handle this just right. “How am I supposed to make a stupid face over your shoulder if only my eyes show?”

She relaxed just a fraction. “So we’re taking a stupid face photo then?”

“Certainly. Shoes?”

She grumbled but slipped them off. She was being appealingly cooperative tonight. Without shoes, she was only an inch or so taller, a nearly insignificant difference, and he rested his chin on her shoulder. Even he knew it was far too familiar for the confusing relationship they had, at least in his own mind, but she didn’t ask him to stop.

She did tense her neck a bit though. “All right, stupid faces.”

He hovered his foot over the pedal that signaled the camera to click, but hesitated. “Wait, the arms. Gotta do the arms, you know.”

“What arms?” She turned her head to glance back at him, but he was so close their breaths mingled. Her eyes widened, revealing the full extent of hypnotic blue.

He swallowed. “The…arm thing.”

Her brow crinkled in confusion, so he gladly took the opportunity to fake-huff exasperation and grabbed her hands, lifting her arms up parallel to the floor like that stupid thing in the movie.

“These arms.”

“This is mortifying, Jaime.” But she didn’t look all that mortified. Perhaps just mildly annoyed.

And then he could tell exactly when she remembered the rest of the reenactment. She let herself stare at the screen, but she wasn’t seeing herself. Her eyes met his with a nervous glare. He ignored her and wrapped his arms around her waist anyway, his chin still on her shoulder. Her arms began to sink down.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned in a deep, soft voice.

She lifted them, begrudgingly, but continued to meet his gaze in the screen.

He whispered in her ear to get that blush moving. “Say _fudge_.”

“Wrong food,” she muttered, the blush not coming.

“Fine then, say _The Kingslayer is the sexiest man alive.”_

She turned her face sideways to glare. “Absolutely not!”

He grinned as wide as he could, which was a natural reaction to the proximity of her eyes. “Say _The Kingslayer is a dumpy little fat man with terrible hair.”_

He knew it would make her laugh, and he wasn’t disappointed. After her eyes had gone even wider in surprise, she couldn’t stifle a chuckle, and that’s the precise moment he stepped on the camera peddle.

He let the laugh play out, but it died as soon as she looked back at the screen. He wasn’t feeling quite so humorous himself as he stared, and still he didn’t unwrap his arms from her body. Jaime knew he rarely looked happy in photos, mostly because they were taken with his barely-on-good-terms family members or for hideously boring press releases. He couldn’t even remember seeing a photo of Brienne outside of the stiff, uncomfortable staff portrait they all had in the directory.

This photo was something different. She stood so still that he thought she might have frozen, and he knew he had seconds, maybe less before she darted out of there and refused to return. Her long legs would take her away before he could catch her. He felt a foreign wave of uncertainty in his mind, though. Should he feign that it was no big deal? That it was all just good fun? That would be a lie.

Should he make it an even _bigger_ deal and say out loud how she looked quite remarkable in that photo, so incredibly tall and powerful, and more important, how well they looked together as they wore matching laughter-smiles, their faces mere inches apart. He hadn’t realized that his arms had tightened around her when he’d pressed the pedal. He hadn’t seen her arms fall to let her fingers skate over his. He hadn’t noticed how perfectly his body had molded to her from behind.

The photo showed it all, and he knew it, and she knew it.

He stepped away immediately and turned to walk steadily towards the next space. Plan C. Let her see how it affected him, but don’t let her run away.

In the room beyond the ship was a recreation of a first-class cabin just like the one where the lead actress had bared her breasts for a way-too-modern-looking sketch done by the actor. It had been a ridiculous scene in the film, jarring from what little dull continuity it managed, and certainly overlooking the actual ramifications of a woman of that period posing nude as if it meant nothing.

But he had an idea, a way to break the tension that followed him thick like a fog. Brienne hadn’t followed him, but she hadn’t left. A good sign. He moved to the velvet divan bolted to the floor in the middle of the cabin. In front was a chair with a lap easel attached, and paper for the attendees to sketch. Why the exhibit thought it a good idea to offer this “opportunity” was still beyond him, but he could work it in his favor.

He quickly shrugged off his jacket, tossing it to the other end of the divan and unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled the fabric open, and in a stroke of genius, pulled two exhibition stickers from the roll in his pocket to use as pasties. They’d probably hurt like a bitch to pull off, but he hoped the insanity would help Brienne return to normal. He didn’t want her to forget about the photo, he just wanted her to accept it as something nice to look at. It certainly was for him.

He still didn’t hear her move. Time for drastic measures. “Wench!” he called loudly, resorting to the nickname she detested, and one he’d given her after they had jointly overseen a medieval peasant culture exhibit the year before. No response.

“Come on, wench, I’m feeling quite exposed in here!” He turned to stretch out on the divan and arrange himself into a mockery of the film’s actress with her breasts exposed.

Finally, he heard a quiet shuffle that sounded like her bare feet moving closer. He swallowed the thickness that had built in his throat, surprised at his show of nerves. It was important that she not run away, and it was important that he think about why that was important. He shook off the convoluted train of thought.

Her shadow entered before she did, and the shape of it almost immediately transformed from a stiffness that hunched into itself to a jolting sort of dance as she burst into laughter. Exactly as he’d hoped.

He risked a glance at her face to see her mouth open wide between bouts of laughter, her gaze fixed on the stickers on his chest.

“What?” He faked a hurt expression. “I’m offended. I can’t help that my nipples have ships on them. I was born this way.”

She sucked in deep lungful’s of air. “Jaime, what even goes on in your head?” Still she chuckled through her words.

He rose to a sitting positon, still making sure his chest was adequately displayed. “I frequently have no idea.”

“I believe it.”

He glanced at the chair with the easel. “Aren’t you going to draw me now? The experience, you know.”

She looked thoughtful, and there was maybe a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I have absolutely no skill in drawing.”

“Then what?” He could tell she was plotting.

She stared for a good long while at his chest, and then surprisingly held out her hand. He didn’t wait to take it. He said nothing, not wanting to jinx this unexpected offering. She pulled him quickly back to the ship room until he faced the screen, and before he could stop her, she pressed the foot pedal, and there he was on the screen with a slack jaw, startled gaze, and chest exposed. And sticker pasties.

She was behind him grinning all the while. He might like this photo nearly as much as the last. Before he could actually process what she’d done, she was off to the other room, and he barely caught up to her as she passed through to the next space. Just before the gloss of the cabin faded into something else, he stopped next to a light and peered down at his chest. The stickers were starting to chafe.

She’d stopped to glance back at him. “What’s the matter? Stupid idea catching up with you?”

“I think so, yes.” He flashed her puppy dog eyes.

“No sympathy from me,” she asserted, but she stared at his chest again.

He gingerly peeled away the edge of one sticker, but it hurt far more than he’d expected. It pulled hair and delicate skin until his eyes began to water. “I admit it. I’m an idiot.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to do.” He shot her a genuinely needy look. She always fixed his stupidity.

“Take them off. Or leave them until they decompose.” She was trying hard not to smile.

“They hurt.”

“I’m sure.”

“Brienne!” It came out almost as a whine.

She rolled her eyes and shrugged dramatically before stepping close. “I can’t believe I’m going to pull stickers off your nipples, Jaime. Really. This is a low for us both.”

“I can’t seem to regret it.” He was still in such a good humor that it hardly mattered.

She smiled at him. “Oh, you will.”

And she ripped both stickers off in a single motion. He might have shrieked. It was loud and mortifying. Water trickled from the corners of his eyes.

“Serves you right,” she stated, but her eyes told him she felt a sliver of empathy. “Put pressure on them.”

“What? Ow. Help.” He bounced on his heels for no reason he understood, clenching his hands into tight fists.

“Oh, good gods,” she muttered as she pressed her palms forcefully on the bright red circles of agony that had been his nipples.

He stopped bouncing and whining. He stopped thinking even. There was actual pain happening from his stupid move, but she was touching him in places a co-worker really shouldn’t, and he just wanted her to press harder. His breathing relaxed, and the blood that had rushed to the areas of injury retreated in favor of needier southern regions.

She took this wrong. She removed her hands because she thought he felt better, but no! _Come back!_

“Right then,” she moved into the next room completely. “Cargo Hold, or by another name, Storage Room of Senseless Fornication.”

He wanted to laugh, but he was too distracted by the ghost of her touch and the sight of her legs walking away from him. And her ass, too. He’d never noticed how shapely it was before. She was incredibly fit, all those muscles stretching all the time, flexing…

He sighed, a victim of his own machinations, and he followed her because that’s what he did.

This space was dressed with a variety of wooden crates and vintage steamer trunks, and the film’s car in the middle. Attendees could sit in the car for a moment, perhaps pretend they’d just had sex as they placed a palm on the window for their friends to photograph. Jaime snorted at his memory of the film, how the actors had been overly sweaty to the point of grossness, and how the position in the car was really not feasible for any sort of naked shenanigans let alone the depicted missionary scene. He’d have a certain blonde colleague on top, that’s for sure. Much more room and leverage that way, though the car would still be small.

The disdain he felt for the scene in the film transformed into something quite different as he imagined himself in the car with a panting Brienne. The mass of her body would engulf him in a way he found utterly captivating. He’d have those long legs wrapped about him, and by the time he was done, she’d slap that sweaty palm on the window they’d make cloudy with hot breath.

Jaime was instantly grateful that Brienne had strolled around the car ahead of him. It would take him a bit to be presentable in public again, though he wasn’t entirely sure that would happen any time soon. He buttoned the bottom of his shirt and kept it untucked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He hoped it would be enough of a disguise.

She glanced back. “Well, this room’s done. And no, I’m not getting in that car.”

For once, he didn’t argue. “Last one, then.”

“Finally.” She said it vehemently, but it sounded forced to him.

The final space was a fairly small, dark room covered in an elaborately-painted mural of the night sky. The walls and floor had projected video of the sea on them, with one whole side taken up by point-of-view footage of the ship sinking in the near distance. The soundtrack was of crashing waves and screaming people. It was highly atmospheric and ridiculous. In the middle of the room was the raft from the film, the one that should have been big enough for both characters to lay upon and wait for rescue, but the idiot script said otherwise.

It was one reason Jaime hated the movie, because he would have at least _tried_ to survive. Even if he didn’t think he deserved it, he would do it for the woman he loved so she wouldn’t be left alone in the middle of a freezing ocean. Coward move to sink into death.

He stared at the raft, knowing how much buzz it would generate for the exhibit as people tried to prove how it would fit two bodies. His eyes lit up with the sudden revelation.

“Come on then, last test.”

She seemed to have been lost in thought, but she snapped out of it to meet his gaze. “Certainly not. This is worse than the car!”

“The car is far worse.” He adopted the most professional look he could manage. “This one really needs testing. Imagine how many people are going to try this thing, Brienne. If it can safely handle our combined weight, it should be good to go.”

“Jaime…” she shook her head in exasperation, but there was a hint of truth in his words that couldn’t ignore. “Fine, you win.”

He refrained from smiling and immediately sat on the raft. It was smaller than he’d thought, but if he perched along the edge, she could probably fit next to him. But she wasn’t moving.

“Well? Let’s get it over with, as you said long ago.” He patted the raft with one hand.

She clutched her dress to the sides of her thighs as she lowered herself down, but even then he was almost pushed off.

“Maybe all those theories were wrong,” she muttered. “I suppose the filmmakers thought about the space issue, no?”

Jaime wasn’t about to give up when he could steal a moment of her body’s warmth before this strange night was over. “Remember the chart they showed us? Of all the ways two people could fit? It’s certainly possible.”

She turned her face away. “Maybe if one of those people were a tiny actress.”

Now he knew he had to make this work, thinking back to anything useful on the chart some fans, or possibly anti-fans, had made to show the workable combinations. He couldn’t get away with lying on top of her, which was the preferable option, but another might work. He rose quickly.

“Not at all. The filmmakers just had to make the guy die so everyone would think him heroic and self-sacrificing. Total moron, if you ask me. Now lie down, and I’ll prove it to you.” He stood tall and enjoyed the rare opportunity to look down at her face.

She looked a bit odd as she complied, maybe blushing though he couldn’t see in the light.

“On your side,” he added.

She positioned herself in a straight line along an edge, her legs hanging off the end by at least a foot and her head resting in the crook of her folded arm. In one fluid motion he joined her and pressed his body fully against hers so he wouldn’t fall off. The raft teetered, but it was meant to do that. He didn’t mind since the jolt made her grab his arm to steady them.

“I’m going to fall,” she murmured.

There was foam all around the perimeter for just that reason, but still. He quickly wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled even closer.

“See? If that jackass had just done this he wouldn’t have perished. Even conserves body heat.” He nudged one leg between hers. For leverage. Yes.

Their faces were only an inch apart. He could feel the heat of her breath as she parted her lips. “I suppose the woman was selfish, too.”

He found himself whispering. “How so?”

“She didn’t try harder to keep him from sliding away. She could have grabbed him in the water and still kept hold of the raft before he sank too far.”

“That’s true. What a bitch.” He chuckled purposefully so she’d feel the vibration in his chest as it pressed against her.

“She didn’t really love him though, or she would have tried. She would have died trying.”

She seemed very serious about it, and he wanted to know more. “What of her family?”

Brienne scoffed, and her lips nearly brushed his by accident. “She clearly didn’t care much about that if she was fine betraying her fiancé and her virtue to a steerage boy. She loved the idea of him, the excitement, not the man.”

“It was a shallow love,” he said just to respond, but as her face transformed into mirth, he realized his mistake.

“Did you seriously just make a pun about an icy death?” Her hand gripped his shoulder as they still tried to avoid tipping the raft.

“Guess I did. Huzzah.” His nose grazed hers as he spoke.

It took him that long to realize she wasn’t pulling away, either wasn’t aware of or had decided to dismiss any embarrassment over their admittedly inappropriate position. She gripped him as he gripped her, and he remembered that first photo and how it made them look like they were together.

She was staring at him with those blue eyes still alight from his joke. Without warning, he tilted his head just enough to comfortably press his lips against hers. He found himself sinking into her skin as the feel of her unbalanced him.

She yanked her head back in shock, too late though. She’d already let his mouth linger on hers. He was sure she would try to run.

So he kissed her again despite the sadness in her now-stiff body and fear in her eyes. It was quick this time, and then he spoke. “I think I’ve wanted to do that for years.”

It took her a while to manage a reply, breathy and frightened. “You… _think_?”

“Yes.” He nodded as he rested his forehead against hers. “I’m slow.”

She started blinking, quickly, but there was no apparent threat of tears. It was adjustment blinking, he thought. All at once, a flood of impatience overtook him, and he saw in his mind the years and years of having her there, right next to him, and he couldn’t even pinpoint when he’d decided she was important. Long ago, surely. Probably long before he could guess. He hadn’t been lying about the slowness. She’d crept up on him with the pace of continental shift, but now he knew he wanted her and was probably in love with her or something equally insane. It felt that way.

He took her lips with a gentle force, concealing the things he really wanted to do. If she hadn’t harbored the same peculiar affection as he had, if she didn’t want to accept what he felt now, he’d just have to pester her until she did. That always worked.

It was only when her hands wound around his neck, her long fingers tangling in his hair that he could finally breathe. He chuckled aloud, knowing she’d think it was some reaction to their weird choice of snog location, but it was because of the sudden release of nerves. Brienne Tarth was not a woman who would allow someone’s tongue in her mouth if she didn’t want it there. The fact that she wasn’t shoving him away, and was instead parrying his moves with a frantic intensity, made him feel like he was flying over the rooftops on the back of a fire-breathing dragon of old.

She broke contact and turned her face away just an inch or so. An inch too many. “Jaime, we can’t…”

He kissed her chin and down the pale column of her neck to that spatter of freckles he’d stared at so many times. “Can’t? Or don’t want to?” he murmured against her skin, using his tongue to trace her collarbone.

Her breath ruffled his hair, and he felt her arch her back until she was pressed even closer. He hoped her long silence was the result of his mouth on her skin and not some unfounded notion of inadequacy.

Finally, she spat out, “Can’t.”

The raft quavered as he pressed her flat on her back and rested on top of her. She was certainly sturdy enough to handle his weight. “And why is that?”

She peered at him with that mesmerizing blue, her thoughts seemingly vanished. And then he heard lazy footsteps. Not close by, maybe in the photo room, but they had only minutes until they were found.

“That’s why!” She shoved him back hard enough that he fell off the raft onto the surrounding foam. “The guard, Jaime.”

Had they really lingered in the exhibit so long that the rounds were being made? He struggled to his feet and fought off a severe wave of irritation at the interruption, just when he’d learned what her skin tasted like. He licked his lips.

Her gaze was drawn to the motion instantly, and she sighed heavily before pointing. “Your shirt.”

He hastily fixed the rest of the buttons, but there wasn’t much point. It would be obvious what they’d been up to from her deep flush and the state of their hair alone. The guard was nearly there, so Jaime moved around the raft and stole one last peck before she could get away.

“What about that drink?” he whispered.

She nodded slowly, not looking at him but still breathing hard.

The guard sauntered in, barely looking away from the phone he held in his hand. It was Jon, the night watchman, and he had a known addiction to trivia games to counteract how dim he was.

“Oh! Hello.” Jon’s eyes were wide as he saw them, but he gave no indication that he knew what they’d been up to. “They said you’d be around, but I thought you’d have left by now.”

Jaime cleared his throat. “A few final touches to accomplish, Jon. Things needed some personal attention.”

Brienne glared at him without Jon noticing.

“That’s fine, then. Just stop by security when you leave so you don’t set the door alarm off.” Jon nodded and proceeded through to the gift shop which would lead to the offices and exit.

As soon as Jon’s shadow vanished, Jaime stepped close. He didn’t like being so far from her body, but she held up her palms to stop him. “Jaime, we can’t. Not here.”

“But somewhere else?” he pushed.

And there was her familiar look of exasperation. He’d missed it. “Fine, somewhere else. And I’ve forgotten my shoes.”

“I’ll get them,” he offered, hoping to draw her back into the isolation of the other rooms.

“No, you have to take care of those photos.”

He certainly hadn’t forgotten about them. “Oh, yes. I’ll remove them from the system.” _And email them to myself_. There was no way he’d delete them completely.

She nodded matter-of-factly, trying hard to find her professional demeanor despite the clenching of her fists at her sides. He flashed her a grin full of explicit ideas that turned her beet red before she left.

The gift shop was dark beyond the raft room, full of vague outlines belonging to stupid ephemera. Attendees would pay far too much for books and t-shirts and pens they’d forget about in mere weeks. He moved to the computer used to store the photos. People could buy prints of their snaps for an exorbitant amount, but that didn’t apply to Jaime. He was simply going to send them as digital copies, but he couldn’t resist printing the one of them both looking at each other, carefully tucking it into his pocket.

His finger hovered over the delete button, but a stroke of genius made him smile. He hoped it wouldn’t be too much, wouldn’t push her away, but after her enthusiastic response to his kisses, that had become a lessened possibility. He sent the photo of them to the big screen where he hoped it would greet her as she fetched her shoes. He’d delete it when they left.

She smelled like clean linen. He wasn’t sure why that newly-noted fact flooded his mind just then, but he found himself fixated on it. She probably used some cheap drugstore soap for just about everything, but he liked how unpretentious it was. And her skin was soft. He wanted to know what that softness felt like as it stretched over the muscles of her legs. That’s what he would go for next, those legs.

It had been far too long since he’d felt her skin under his fingers. Probably just minutes, but that was enough to make him antsy, so he decided to find her because he was a needy little bastard. He moved quickly through the spaces until he came upon the archway to the photo room.

She stood in front of the screen with her shoes dangling between her fingers, her profile cast in half-shadow. Her neck straightened, so she knew he was there.

“You put this up again, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t look at him as she contemplated the image. “It’s…happy.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m happy.”

She swiveled to face him though there was too much distance. He thought she might dissemble or ask him why or something else equally inane. She didn’t. “Me too.”

He held out his arm. “Come, my lady, let’s get enough drink in you so you’ll let me grope you in public.”

She tried to adopt a severe expression, but it failed as her lips twitched. “Don’t be crass.”

“Oh, I’m certainly going to be crass.”

She finally strode over to take his arm, a hint of a smile lighting up her face. She led him through all the rooms, even fetching his forgotten jacket on the velvet divan, but that damned car appeared again. This time, it didn’t seem either absurd or nerve-racking. He caught her staring at it, too.

He let her arm slip away and moved to the car door, pulling it open in one motion and standing back so she could see inside. “We really should test this space.”

She glanced from him to the car and back. “It’s gotten quite late.”

“Jon won’t be back for hours.”

“We have to be here for the opening in the morning. We should get some sleep.” She was stalling, and he knew it.

“Do you want to sleep?”

Her gaze snapped to his, magnetically. “No.”

“Get in the car, Brienne.” He gestured with one hand to the small interior. “See? I’m even holding the door for you.”

She scowled, but it had no edge. “Yes, Jaime, you’re quite a gentlemen. _Get in the car, Brienne, so I can feel you up and stick my tongue down your throat._ ”

He feigned shock. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even try to hold it back.

“Then get in the car.”

“Oh, good gods.” She huffed, but she dropped her shoes and ducked low to climb inside.

He followed immediately, swinging the door behind him until the latch sounded. There was no space left. She was taking it all up, her legs curled under her and her dress crawling up to expose her thighs. It was clearly an uncomfortable position.

“This is absurd. I’m getting out.”

He knelt on the narrow floor and kissed her hard, ignoring the digging of metal on his shins and the awkward angle of his neck. One hand skated up her side until it reached her small breast, and he absorbed the heat of her skin there until she gasped.

“Still want to get out?”

“No,” she pulled him against her.

The images that had flashed in his mind earlier came back with a vengeance, and he couldn’t help pushing himself against her bare thigh.

She pulled her head back, but not her body. “This is escalating quickly.”

“Yes,” he nodded against her lips. “We should get that drink and talk about escalations.”

“I don’t want to talk. Do you?”

“No, I don’t want to _talk_. I want to take you in this car and watch your eyes darken as you come apart. But we could also go on a date and save that.” He at least wanted her to think about it before he let himself get too caught up in the moment.

Her eyes darkened right then. “Weird time to ask me out, Jaime.”

“I’ve been asking you out for months. You wouldn’t say yes.” He grinned at her.

Those beautiful eyes betrayed her shock. They widened as she lifted herself to sit up fully, her head nearly grazing the roof of the car. “You have, haven’t you?”

“That was the general point of my nagging, yes.”

She looked somehow innocent and seductive at the same time, as she stared at him. She got it, he knew, that he wasn’t messing with her. Her palm formed to his cheek, and for once, she kissed him and it felt all-consuming and final, like drowning. But in a good way.

He pulled her as close as he could and ground against her, his hands skating up her legs until they gripped her ass. He struggled to turn them so he sat on the car seat with her straddling him, and he slid down until he was nearly on the edge of the smooth leather so she wouldn’t bump her head. His cock brushed the juncture of her thighs, a blazing heat that made him close his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them, she was staring at him. She leaned down and kissed him, and fumbled for the zipper of his trousers. He stopped her with a near-shaking hand. “I want to play first. I want to taste you and have you begging for it.”

She was all business as she swatted his hand away and pushed the fabric down to bunch at his hips. “Not this time.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to get caught.” She didn’t look at him, but she wasn’t blushing. It was an excuse.

His grin turned into a smirk that threated to betray his arrogance to its full extent. “No, you want it hard and fast.”

Her hands rose to his shoulders as she leaned over him, making him fall that last bit under her spell. “You’ve gotten me quite worked up. If this were a fight, we’d have bashed each other to pieces by now.”

“Well, okay then,” he muttered with not much focus. Her breast hovered too close to his mouth to think straight.

“Okay.” She kissed him again.

He gave up any sense of proper pacing and smashed her body fully onto his. He jerked the zipper of her dress down until he could scrape it off her arms to bare her for feasting. She clutched his head, murmuring sounds that weren’t quite words, and he bit into her shoulder just for fun. One of her hands rose to brace itself against the car roof, which made her grind into him with more pressure.

Jaime had to have her mouth, had to feel her soft flesh give way to him while their tongues played. He dug his fingers into her hips until she bucked against him, and he couldn’t stop himself from ripping her smallclothes away. She pulled back to glare at him, and he couldn’t tell if she were more unhappy at the prospect of going nude under her dress once they left or if she were aroused by the ripping sound. He stared right back as he let one finger brush through her hair along her seam, and she sank her forehead against her arm that still braced on the roof.

Not upset then. He stroked her harder until she grew impatient enough to grab his hand and place it against her breast as she tried to align herself with him. He plunged his tongue back between her lips and used all his strength to brace them as he pushed into her. He was growing addicted to the low, throaty murmurs she made, and he fixated on them to avoid exploding in a spectacular show of inadequacy. She was such a big woman he hadn’t expected her to be so tight on him, such a perfect, shattering fit. He hid his face in the crook of her neck and wrapped his arms around her as they rocked.

The whole car began to move on its platform, flimsy in its capacity to hold them as they moved wildly in its confines. He swallowed thickly, his mind forgetting how to function from the onslaught of his body’s stimulation. He was surrounded by her, enveloped by her, and the warmth of her and the scent of her skin made it feel like he might forget how to breath at all. He gripped her hip with one hand so he could drive himself further, make her pant louder, and he took her nipple between his teeth.

His name poured from her mouth in a near-shout as she came, as she fell into pieces around him just as he’d wanted, and her hand reached out for any sort of stability. It hit the window, betraying the sort of passion she kept bottled up inside. It was too late for her to hide it now.

He was going to laugh about that, the window, but couldn’t remember how. It had taken all his strength to hold back, and he finally let himself spill into her body with a guttural murmur of her name. She wrapped her arms around him, stroking his skin until he stopped shaking and sank against her. He was more replete than he could remember, exhausted and wide awake at the same time. He kissed her with a sudden burst of what felt like gratitude for just letting him touch her.

He couldn’t stop it then, the chuckle that eased its way into her from his own chest.

She swallowed before she could speak. “What is it?”

He glanced around the tiny space. “It’s foggy in here.”

“Good gods, it is.”

“You slapped the window.”

“I did not.” She tried to lift herself from him, but he stopped her with a good, hard dig of the fingers into her flesh.

“You did. Just like the film.”

Her lips parted to form a response once, twice, then closed. She shrugged. “I still hate the film.”

“So do I.”

“And really, how could she let him sink into the water after car sex?” She looked comically incredulous.

“Car sex is worth living for.” He nodded with no grace and his muscles had decided to become jelly. “What about raft sex?”

She tried to regain her professional face even though his cock was still inside her. “It would have kept them warm.”

“How about that drink?” He demanded, wanting a verbal answer now rather than a shy nod of the head.

“All right, but you’d better know of a good bar with no sticky floors and a decent variety of cider.”

“I have one. How about a date?”

She peered down at him. “I don’t like tiny plates of food.”

“I know a meat place. How about coming back to my flat so we can do this again without losing feeling in our legs?”

She stayed silent for just a moment. “Is that what you really want, Jaime?”

He didn’t even try to hide his grin. “I want you.”

* * *

 

When the exhibition opened in the morning to an enormous crowd and sold-out tickets, Varys, the head curator, gathered his staff together in the foyer to congratulate them on such a successful event. Lannister and Tarth were missing from the group, so Varys figured they were off dealing with attendee issues. He was so grateful they’d volunteered for that miserable job, one which would surely peel the gloss away from the wonderful film memorabilia filling his space. It was a fan’s delight, and he was an embarrassment of a fanboy.

He’d arrived first that morning, so early the night watchmen were still on shift. His reliable team had only just left after spending hours making sure everything would run smoothly. They were perfectionists. He trusted them.

Varys was absolutely delighted with everything, even the tiny changes he noticed in the lighting. There was even a dip in the velvet divan, and best of all, the old, tantalizing car had a handprint on the window. _What a lovely touch_!

Now, as he stood on the fake ship’s deck, surveying the wonder before him, he spotted Tarth’s imposing stature weave through the crowd toward the offices. Poor thing looked tired, her hair a bit of a shambles and her eyes vibrant with the gloss of anxiety. She must have been so worried that the attendees would like everything. She wasn’t a beauty to impress the masses, but she could be counted on absolutely.

As she got closer, he noticed that she wore a sort of skirt that looked exactly like the bottom of the dress she’d been forced to wear the night before. It _was_ the dress! She only had a white shirt buttoned over it and tied in a knot at the bottom. She must have been so worried she’d fallen asleep in her clothes once she’d gotten home with no time to change that morning. He’d have to give her a raise.

She passed by the ship without noticing him, and there right behind her was Lannister. That wasn’t surprising. They were always together. He was in a different suit, but it didn’t seem as if he’d shaved. Very unlike him. Varys didn’t like Lannister much, but he was a good worker, and Tarth kept him in line. Now though, he wasn’t sure. Lannister wore an enormous shit-eating grin, bumping into attendees and brass railings as if he couldn’t see where he was going. He walked a bit stiffly as well.

Just as they were both about to disappear down the office corridor, Varys, from his higher vantage point, sucked in a deep breath of shock as Lannister sneakily reached a hand out to very unprofessionally brush Tarth’s…rear area. He was shocked. Utterly and completely. Absolutely scandalized!

He didn’t know what to do about this. Would it ruin their wonderful work partnership? Would they be unable to complete their tasks as they ought? He glanced around at the brazen displays, the glorious ship, the wide, imposing stair that led to a heaven of velvet and gold. He remembered the handprint.

Perhaps all was well. It had gotten to them, too. The magnificent romance of the doomed lovers. He felt himself tear up from recollections of the actor’s tragic fall into deep water. Lovely, just lovely. And it was as if the odd-looking Tarth and egotistical Lannister were twisted reincarnations of his beloved characters. He would oversee them like a ship’s captain. He would protect them and nurture them. He’d give them night tasks so they could spend their free time amongst the exhibition’s bounties!

He shipped it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was stupid. I hope you liked it anyway.
> 
> Apparently, Mikki/ikkiM is my muse, since my J/B fic so far has been inspired by her snarky commentary. 
> 
> Thanks to the aforesaid Mikki for beta-ing! She spotted a badly-worded line wherein Varys states, "Lannister's hand sneakily brushed Brienne's...unprofessional rear area." Mikki asked what is now my favorite beta question: "Is Brienne's butt unprofessional or the hand?"
> 
> Cheers to Brienne's unprofessional butt.


End file.
